A gunshot sounds distinctive, even over the phone, especially when followed by your wife screaming.
The sharp bang ricocheted around Ed Rosenberg’s brain like a pinball on espresso. Someone was shooting at Julie! He felt unseen hands close around his neck and squeeze. “Julie! Are you all right?”
“It’s Dave!” she shrieked. “Oh my God! Dave!”
“What?”
“He’s on the ground! He’s bleeding! Oh—! Ed, I can’t talk. I’ll call you back.”
“Julie! Wait!” The line went dead. Call Ended flashed on Ed’s screen. He jabbed Recents, then her number. Voice-mail. Damn.
Sitting parked between errands in the Mission, Ed realized he was holding his breath. He forced a long exhale and felt a sharp stab in his gut. He had only one thought: to fly to Julie, to be with her, hold her close, make sure she was all right. But where was she? He had no idea.
Ed stared through the windshield toward Twin Peaks. Wisps of fog blew over the ridge and somersaulted toward the Bay. He was also somersaulting—but it felt like being locked in a front-loader on high spin. First they get fired, now this.
Ed knew he had to calm down and remember where Julie was. Her face came to him first—her sparkling deep brown eyes, and her skin an alluring caramel mix of black and white. Her luscious lips formed a word. Breathe. Yes. Breathing was good—and even better after a hit, but what little remained of his stash was back home. That had been one of his errands, but now it would have to wait.
Ed rewound to breakfast, to their usual hectic flail. As he’d filled the dishwasher and readied Jake for daycare, Julie had hustled Sonya out the door to school and run down her plans for the day. But given what had just happened—Dave Kirsch shot!—her words disappeared, engulfed in fog.
Where was she? He slapped the steering wheel so hard his hand hurt. Then the fog cleared and it came back to him: Golden Gate Park, the band shell, some rally.
A spider of cold sweat scuttled from his armpit down his side. The shot, the hot bam of it, so loud, so menacing. It echoed between his ears and made the breath catch in his throat. He hadn’t felt this frantic since his father’s stroke. He could survive the Foghorn shoving them out the door—he could endure almost anything—but not losing Julie.
The curtain opened on Hell: The Movie. He slouched over an open grave, holding the kids’ little hands as their mother was lowered into the ground. He opened his mouth and forcibly exhaled the nightmare. It was Dave who’d been shot—Dave. Julie was all right. Or was she? Someone was shooting and she was right there.
Ed texted her: On way 2 band shell.
He threw it into drive and stomped the accelerator. Tires screeched as he pulled out of the space by the cleaners’ and headed from the lowlands of the Mission up to the hilly plateau of Noe Valley on his way over the ridge and down through the Haight to the park.
He hit the button for the news station. “Moments ago, San Francisco mayoral candidate Dave Kirsch was shot in Golden Gate Park. The Board of Supervisors member and marijuana activist was walking across the museum concourse when a single shot to the chest felled him. No word of his condition. Police are—”
Ed ran a yellow and hurtled across Valencia, narrowly missing two guys holding hands and walking a cocker spaniel. Slow down. Get a grip. But that was impossible. Someone was shooting and Julie was—
Ed held his breath. He was at the beach, his toes curling in warm sand, everything fine, and then the writhing Pacific reared up into a monster wave and raced right for him. He turned to run but could hardly move. He was standing knee deep in oatmeal. Their careers had been guillotined. Their finances teetered on the edge of the abyss. And now bullets were flying. What next? Shot in the chest. Fuck. If Kirsch died—! Such a decent man, the best advocate stoners ever had, and so good to Julie. What was the world coming to?
A red light stopped him at Market Street. He reached for his phone just as it chimed.
“Julie!”
“He’s dead,” she whimpered. “Dave’s dead.”
Ed didn’t know what to say. “Sorry” seemed so feeble. His mind replayed their argument over her job. Why give up steady work for the paper? Because I hate it. The gig’s over on election day. If he wins, I’m the mayor’s press secretary. Kirsch can’t win. Yes he can. Then a miracle, he was rising in the polls, he was number two and gaining, and then—
All Ed cared about was Julie’s safety. “Are you all right?”
“No! Dave’s dead! Didn’t you hear me?”
The light changed. Ed crossed the wide boulevard and pulled up by Café Flore.
“I mean, are you injured?”
“No, no, I’m okay. But Dave—it’s horrible. Blood everywhere, all over Cindy!” Cynthia Miller was Kirsch’s campaign manager.
“I’m on my way. You’re at the band shell, right?”
“Hold on—”
Ed heard muffled voices.
“I have to give a statement,” Julie said, blowing her nose. “Ed, don’t come here. You won’t get close. They’ve got everything cordoned off. Cops everywhere.” To someone else she said, “Julie Pearl, media...Yes... all right. In a minute.” Then she returned to the phone. “I gotta go—”
“Wait! When will you be home?”
“No idea...I have to handle this. The first TV truck just pulled up. Oh, shit. It’s my day to pick up the kids.” Her voice caught. “Can you?”
“Yes, yes, don’t worry about it.” Ed heard a piercing siren. “What’s that?”
“The ambulance.” She sobbed once, then pulled herself together. “Oh, God, a body bag.”
Ed’s gut ached.
Julie said, “Don’t forget the spoon.” Their year-old son’s security blanket was an old wooden spoon. He carried it everywhere and slept with it. If they left it at daycare, Jake bawled inconsolably
“The spoon, yes.”
“Now three TV trucks—and Wally.” Police reporter Wallace Turner was one of the few San Francisco Foghorn old-timers who still had a job. “I’m in no shape for a press conference,” Julie moaned, “but it’s show time.”